


Have Yourself a Drarry Little Christmas

by frnklymrshnkly



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: M/M, Patronus messages, Patronuses
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-18
Updated: 2017-12-18
Packaged: 2019-02-16 13:38:23
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,637
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13055082
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/frnklymrshnkly/pseuds/frnklymrshnkly
Summary: Harry's just trying to get through his last day of work before the hols.





	Have Yourself a Drarry Little Christmas

**Author's Note:**

  * For [unadulteratedstorycollector](https://archiveofourown.org/users/unadulteratedstorycollector/gifts).



> Dear **unadulteratedstorycollector** , here's a little bit of whatever this is to say "Happy Hols!" and thank you for being a fabulous co/mod, positive community member, and all around quality human. Working with you is a joy and being your chum doubly so!
> 
> Infinite thanks to **aibidil** for the beta/making this readable!

Harry sits at his desk, picking up his pen and dropping it repeatedly (it’s more interesting than his paperwork), when a bright light flashes and he finds himself addressed by a regal-looking Weimaraner. 

The large dog informs him that there is no food, and vanishes.

Harry’s jaw clamps down on a laugh. 

This is not happening today. It’s just not. It’s his last day in the office before he breaks for Yuletide and he’s barely maintaining his focus as it is. But Hermione, micromanager that she is, hates it when he skips out before finishing and has to take work home.

He decides to ignore the message and returns promptly to his important pen observations.

When the Weimaraner reappears twenty minutes later and tells Harry, “I’m starving,” he continues his policy of pointedly ignoring it. 

This time only ten minutes pass before the dog enters his office and demands, “Well?!” in an affronted tone. 

Harry is forced to accept that this may, in fact, be happening. He removes his glasses, holding them in his left hand while he pinches the bridge of his nose with his right, because that’s what people do when they are placed between the rock of their boss/best friend and the hard place of their partner. After a few, dear moments of quality self-pity, he calls to mind a memory of Teddy’s hair changing to emulate his own, utters a quick six syllables, and waves his wand. He gives his stag a message of his own (“So far as I know, the shops are not all closed for business today”) and sends it on its way. He has not even a tiny sliver of hope that his proposed solution will stem the tide of silvery hunting dogs.

Hardly any time passes before the Weimaraner returns to let Harry know that it’s cold out.

Harry summons another stag and asks, “Have you lost your coat, scarf, and gloves?” He’s about to inquire whether Draco has also lost the power to Apparate, but he reminds himself that he, Harry, is the grown up here. He is the one being disrupted in his workplace. He’s not fuelling this.

Quick as a flash the dog is back demanding to know why Harry can’t just bring some groceries over. And cook them. Perhaps, it adds, Harry should pick up a few pastries on the way to nibble in the meantime.

Harry would love _not_ to believe what he’s hearing, but, if he’s really honest with himself, it’s not even a bit surprising. Hell, it’s not even the first time. On Halloween he’d received a barrage of Weimaraners because the toilet had been running. 31 July had seen a parade of dogs through the office after a passive-aggressive owl from Hermione. And this time last year, Harry’s perennial effort to finish the last of his dreaded pre-Yuletide tasks at work had been severely hampered by the frequent appearances of Patronuses in a kind of relay, recounting a visit to Andromeda and Teddy during which Teddy’s hair had failed to turn blond even once. The narrative relay was followed by more spectral hounds badgering Harry for details about Teddy’s Metamorphmaging when Harry had last seen him.

Harry’s just settling into a nice lamentation about what he did to deserve this, when Hermione bursts into his office. 

“Harry, either stop Draco from sending Patronuses to my office or bring him something to eat. December is our busiest time of year! You know this!”

She’s not exaggerating. There’s something about the festivities of the month that suddenly makes people reach into their Gringotts accounts to share a bit of gold with a few good causes. Throw in orphans and Harry Potter, and you’ve got a flurry of bank drafts to deal with, tax receipts to send, and non-denominational thank-you cards to sign.

“Did you tell him to stop?” Harry asks innocently.

“Twice. Either make it stop, feed him, or take over the accounting so that I can. I can only do so many things at once!”

“I’m not following,” Harry says, unable to stop himself. Draco’s Patronuses have got his dander up and he’s feeling cheeky. “Since when is there any limit to the number of plates you can spin?”

“Harry, I’m serious,” Hermione says, her face pained. “I just want to finish up and get out of here. It’s the last day before we break. Please, let’s just get through it.”

Before Harry can placate her, two Weimaraners appear, speaking over one another.

Harry manages to catch something about being nearly out of loo roll, as well, in between snatches of a message about his blood sugar level.

Hermione levels her most resolved stare at him, and he throws his hands up in surrender, promising to try to stopper the Patronus onslaught.

Harry conjures a new stag and sends it to Draco to ask if there is really no food in the house at all. Has he checked, say, the pantry and refrigerator?

In less than a minute the Weimaraner is back in Harry’s office, and Harry hopes that this means he has, at least, diverted fire from Hermione. He’s less pleased with the response itself, which informs him that yes, Draco has checked, and no, there is nothing. 

Harry resigns himself to the inevitability of getting on Hermione’s shit list, conjures what he hopes is his last Patronus of the day, and sends it to Draco with a message that he’ll be home after he picks up a few things. He sweeps his paperwork into his satchel untidily before throwing his coat on, bidding Hermione goodbye with a vow to finish his work at home this evening and no later. He Apparates around the corner from the Waitrose closest to the townhouse he and Draco share.

After picking up a leg of lamb, young potatoes, green beans, fresh herbs, loo roll, and a few almond croissants, Harry arrives in their kitchen with a loud CRACK.

“Hi,” Draco says in greeting from where he’s sat at the table, chewing a mouthful of cereal. 

Harry stares at him a moment, taking in the scene. Draco is sitting, looking completely at ease, with an open box of Sugar Puffs and a bottle of milk next to his half-eaten bowl.

“Oh, you’re home,” Draco says, feigning surprise.

Harry wants to be outraged. He really does. A not insignificant part of him wants to admonish Draco for calling him home from work when he really needs to finish up before the hols. But that part of him is utterly trounced by a larger part that has gone all squishy because of the smirk Draco’s wearing. He looks like the cat that got the canary.

Harry walks toward the table, where he sets down his satchel and the shopping and picks up the box of Sugar Puffs to examine the label. “Starving, are you?” he asks sarcastically.

“This doesn’t count as food,” Draco counters. “It’s nothing but refined sugar. It just makes me want more. Speaking of which, did you bring pastry?”

Harry hooks his index finger into one of the bags and draws it nearer to them. “Almond croissants are in here. I’ll get started on dinner.”

“So, what was so important that you ignored my hue and cry?” Draco inquires, as though he doesn’t know.

“The usual.”

“Hmm.”

Draco begins putting the shopping away while Harry gets the lamb in the oven and sets the potatoes to boil. Once they’ve reached a merry boil, Harry sits down next to Draco.

“So. Did you bring ‘the usual’ home with you?” Draco inquires, falsely earnest. He knows the answer. It’s one of the reasons he’s harangued Harry into coming home. The almond croissants are not to be discounted, however.

“Yeah. I promised Hermione I’d finish tonight. I’ll have to rent a bunch of owls first thing tomorrow morning.”

“Let’s see, then,” says Draco. 

Harry reaches into his satchel and extracts his paperwork, tossing it out before them.

Draco grabs a card from the haphazard heap and reads: “ _Holiday Greetings_ ” flatly. “Granger’s really outdone herself this year. These lack any character whatsoever.”

Harry agrees, but says nothing. It’s hard to feel critical of Hermione when he’s settled in a warm kitchen with Draco.

“First things first,” Draco continues, drawing his wand from his pocket and pointing it at the heap, “Let’s just jazz these up a bit. I’ve got just the thing.”

With a flourish of his wand the heap goes from plain reds and whites to an assortment that includes dazzling greens and blues and silvers and golds, all glittering magically. 

Harry picks one up cautiously and reads the new caption greeting: “Have Yourself a Drarry Little Christmas,” he says, not even trying to stifle a laugh. “Been keeping that one under your hat all year, have you?”

“Give the people what they want, Harry,” Draco says, and punctuates the advice by kissing Harry on the cheek.

“And they want us, do they?”

“Well, they want you, and that means they’re having me too.”

“Hermione is going to be furious. She still won’t let me forget about the Howlers from last year’s batch.”

Draco just shrugs—a picture of unconcern. “Howlers aside, I know that at least two people sent in enormous donations after receiving last year's cards." 

"Yeah, you and your mother," Harry affirms. “I hope you didn’t think that was sneaky. Hermione and I do the books ourselves, you know.”

“In any event,” Draco says, turning back to the cards with a faux-philosophical sigh, “these aren’t going to sign themselves with thanks and an autograph from the Chosen One.” He roots around in Harry’s bag for a moment, retrieves two pens and holds one out for Harry. 

“Fifty Galleons says fewer than five people complain about forged signatures this year. I’m getting better.”


End file.
